Nothing to Fear (17 page)

"I'm going to call Doc Davis," I told her.

"No, no," she said. "It's just a spell. It'll pass."

"It's not a spell, Mama. It's the same as it was before," I argued. "Look at your legs. They're as fat as old Mrs. Tharp's downstairs."

That made her smile. "Well, thank you kindly for the compliment," she said, "but I'm all right. I'll call the doctor if I need him."

"No you won't. You're too proud because you know we can't pay."

"Pride's a fine thing, but I'm not fool enough to die of it, Danny."

I believed her and I felt better for it. But I guess
I
was the fool, because today I came home to find Doc Davis's hat on the table, the curtain pulled over Ma's door, and Mrs. Riley washing out bloody towels in the sink.

"Now don't go jumping to conclusions," Mrs. Riley warned when she caught sight of my face. "It's not as bad as it looks. Just a little spotting is all. You run along back outside and I'll call you when the doctor is through."

"No," I said, heading for the bedroom door. Mrs. Riley scurried over and parked herself in my path.

"You'll embarrass your mother to death if you go in there now," she said. "Run along, like I said."

"No," I repeated.

Mrs. Riley put her hands on her hips and shook her head. "You are as stubborn as a mule," she said. "All right then, stay, but you sit in that chair over there and wait until the doctor comes out."

I picked Maureen up from the floor where she was playing with her coffeepot and did as Mrs. Riley said. I could hear the murmur of voices on the other side of the curtain, and I strained to listen, but Mrs. Riley was carrying on a nonstop, one-sided conversation that seemed designed to frustrate me.

The voices on the other side of the curtain began to rise, and Mrs. Riley's rose with them.

"Mrs. Riley, you're shouting," I told her.

"Am I?" She laughed nervously. "You know, I think it comes of having nine children. The girls are always telling me, 'Mama, you're shouting,' and I don't even realize it. Sometimes I think..."

She went on and on, but I paid no attention. Mama and Doc Davis were shouting now, too, and I could hear them clearly over Mrs. Riley's prattle.

"I can't," Mama shouted.

"You don't, and I won't be responsible for the baby's life, or your own."

"But what of my ironing?"

"You should have thought of that six months
ago. I told you another child would be the death of you."

A shiver of fear ran up my spine, and I hugged Maureen tighter.

"I'm a Catholic, doctor," came Mama'$ reply.

"You're a fool, woman!" the doctor shouted. "Don't you realize you've two other children to care for?"

A silence followed, and I looked over at Mrs. Riley. She made a face and shook her head. "Don't go paying him no mind," she said. "Doc just loves to scare people."

When Doc spoke again, it was obvious that his temper had cooled some. "Now, I'll see you through this," he said, "and the baby, too, but you damn well better be in that bed every time I check on you. And you send that boy of yours at the first sign of any more bleeding. Understand?"

Mama mumbled something, and a moment later the curtain was jerked aside and Doc strode out. He nodded shortly to Mrs. Riley and me, picked up his hat, and left without a word.

Mrs. Riley shook her head. "Some bedside manner," she said. "If he wasn't such a good doctor I'd have sent him packing years ago." She took Maureen from my arms and nodded toward the bedroom doorway.

Mama was lying on her back, staring at the ceiling. When she saw me her eyes grew moist.

"Oh, Danny," she said, "what're we gonna do now?"

I remembered what she had said that time, about it giving her comfort to write to Pa, even though she didn't know where to send the letters. I went over to her dresser and took out her letter paper.

"Here," I told her. "You're gonna write to Pa, and I'm gonna start the laundry."

Ma always made it look so easy. She never told me the laundry had a mind of its own. By the end of the first week I had a permanent backache; my hands were red raw; I couldn't get the smell of Octagon soap and bleach out of my nose; and I had burns on my hands, my arms, and even my chin—I'm not going to even try and explain how I managed that.

Take everything I just said and double it, and that'd just about cover the second week. Meals were makeshift at best, and we probably wouldn't have survived without donations from ladies in the building. By last Saturday, despite Mama's constant praise and encouragement, I was feeling pretty low. The only thing that saved me was that it was Inauguration Day, and somehow I believed that President Roosevelt was going to make things better. Mama and I sat by the radio and listened to his speech.

"I am certain," he said, "that my fellow Americans expect that on my induction into the Presidency I will address them with a candor and a decision which the present situation of our nation impels." He said some other big words, then he said something that gave me hope. "This great nation will endure as it has endured, will revive and will prosper. So, first of all, let me assert my firm belief that the only thing we have to fear is fear itself...."

As he went on talking, I began to believe that he was right. America can lick the depression, and if America can lick the depression, I can sure lick the laundry. I went at it again, more determined than ever, and by the end of this week, I got it down to a science. Laundry into the tub to soak at night. Get up at half past four. Scrub, soap, and bleach. Rinse. Laundry back into the tub with bluing. Go shine shoes. Come home. Rinse again, twist, and hang out. Go to school. Come home. Take the wash in, dampen, and roll up. Do homework. Fix supper. Iron and listen to the radio. Give Maureen her bath and put her to bed. Put in another load to soak for the morning. Iron again until bedtime. There's no time for anything else. I haven't seen Mickey in weeks, or any of the other guys, either, except in school.

I'm managing, though, and I felt pretty good about myself this morning as I loaded the last of the laundry into the wagon and headed down to Miss Emily's.

Sadie, unlike her usual jolly self, seemed anxious and fretful when she let me in.

"Something wrong, Sadie?" I asked.

"Oh, no. Nothin', child. Nothin' for you to worry your head about." She fidgeted absentmindedly about the kitchen with her washrag, too distracted to remember to tell Miss Emily that I'd come.

"Come on, Sadie," I insisted. "I can see that something's wrong."

"Oh, it's the bank," she blurted out, her eyes near tears. "The bank's gone and closed its doors, just like that, without a word of warning."

"Don't worry, Sadie," I told her, feeling very smart because we'd just discussed the banking crisis in school. "That's only because of the bank holiday. President Roosevelt closed the banks to keep everybody from panicking and taking their money out. I'm sure your bank will open up again. Lots of them already have."

Sadie shook her head. "I shore wish I could believe that," she said, "but that bank holiday ended on Thursday, and my bank is still locked up tight."

It's true that lots of banks have gone out of business since the depression started, and lots of folks have lost their savings. There's a good chance that Sadie's bank will open up again, but I can't blame her for being scared. "Do you have a lot of money in it?" I asked.

Sadie twisted the washrag in her hands.

"Every week," she said, her voice hushed, "for ten years now, I been puttin' a little somethin' aside. Didn't tell a soul, not even my husband. My boy Jim, see, he's real smart and I said to myself, 'Sadie, that
boy's gonna make somethin' of hisself. That boy is college material, and you just better be ready when the time comes around.'"

The tears spilled out of her eyes now and she dabbed at them with the rag. "Well, here it is, nearly time, and the bank's gone and closed up. Who would believe such a thing?" She heaved a sigh and her great bosom rose and fell with the weight of it.

I searched for something to say, something strong and comforting, then I remembered President Roosevelt's speech. I reached out and put my hand on her arm. "Sadie," I said solemnly, "you have nothing to fear but fear itself."

Sadie looked at me a moment, then her face cracked into a wide smile and a hearty laugh bubbled up from deep inside her. She threw her head back and laughed and laughed, her bosom shaking mightily, until tears rolled down her cheeks. I stared at her in complete confusion.

"Oh Lawd, Lawd," she said, slowing down at last and catching her breath. "Lawd, that felt good. Thank you, child. Ain't nothin' like a good laugh to put your problems back in perspective."

I shrugged, glad I'd helped, but not quite sure how I'd done it.

"Just a minute now," Sadie went on, "I'll go tell Miss Emily you're here."

I started unloading the wagon, and a few minutes later Sadie came back through the door, looking strangely white for a black person. She put the money into my hand, then she stood there, continuing to hold
my hand in hers. Something in her look frightened me.

"Sadie? What is it?"

Sadie squeezed my hand and looked at me mournfully. "Miss Emily says," she began, "Miss Emily says the quality of your mama's work done fallen off some. She says she has found another laundress."

My mouth fell open and I could actually feel the blood draining from my face. I shook my head.

"No, Sadie ... she can't mean that."

Sadie nodded her head sadly. "She mean it okay, child. Miss Emily don't say nothin' she don't mean."

I grabbed Sadie's arm desperately. "No, Sadie. She can't. She doesn't understand. It's my fault. Ma's pregnant and sick. I been doin' the laundry. I admit, I didn't do so good the first couple of weeks, but I got it down now. I'm doin' good now—look."

I grabbed a tablecloth from the pile and handed it to her. "See? Take this. Show it to her, please. She's got to give me another chance."

Sadie took the tablecloth and nodded.

"All right, child, all right," she said. "Calm yourself. Remember what you told me just now, 'bout fear. I'll see what I can do."

Sadie disappeared through the door again, and I dropped to my knees and crossed myself. "Please, God," I whispered, "make her give me another chance."

It was quiet awhile, then I heard Sadie's voice rising in anger. "But I just told you 'bout his mama.
He's tryin' so hard. Look at this cloth here. Why it's just as pretty as you please."

"It has a scorch on it."

"Just a little, bitty scorch. You can hardly see it. Think of his mama, Miss Emily. She done give you a lot of good years."

"For which she was adequately paid. I owe her nothing. Times like they are, these people ought to know better than to keep breeding like a bunch of sows. It's just plain ignorant."

A few seconds later Sadie burst through the door and yanked me to my feet. "Get up off your knees, child. It's blasphemy in this house." She whisked off her apron and hung it on a hook by the door, then she grabbed her coat off another hook and started to put it on.

"You and me is walkin' out of here," she said, breathing hard and fast, "and ain't neither one of us ever comin' back."

I was scared, and I was mad, but I still had enough of my wits about me to know I couldn't let Sadie do what she was about to do. I grabbed ahold of her coat sleeve and pulled her back.

"No, Sadie," I told her, "you can't do this."

"Just you watch me," she said, pulling her arm free.

I grabbed on again. "Sadie, listen. What about your boy Jim? What about your other kids? Jobs are hard to come by, real hard. You know that. You told me yourself that your husband's out of work. You can't do this. Think of your family."

Sadie didn't pull away this time. She stood still and her shoulders sagged, and all the fight seemed to seep out of her, like air out of a balloon. She pulled her coat off slowly and hung it up, then she grabbed me and hugged me against her great chest.

"You remember one thing, child," she said quietly. "This is just a short path we walkin'. The long road, the good road, lies ahead. And when we get there, you can count on one thing. Folks like Miss Emily that has spent this life lookin' down is sure 'nough gonna spend all eternity lookin' up."

Mama said we shouldn't let on to the neighbors about losing the laundry business. She said they'd only try to pitch in and help, and none of them have anything to spare. She said we'd manage somehow.

I went door to door and shop to shop, looking for any kind of work I could find and turning up nothing, day after day. Every spare minute I had I spent down on the street with my shoeshine box, but there seemed to be more shoeshine boys than ever, and less business to go around. At mealtimes I began to know how Pa must've felt. Here I was, eating a portion that could have gone to Ma or Maureen. Me, fit and able-bodied, taking food from the sick and the small.

I hit on the idea of telling Ma I'd found a job at a restaurant that would give me my noonday dinner in exchange for washing dishes. She said it seemed
slave wages to her, but I insisted that I wanted to do it and she gave me permission. So I just stopped coming home from school at noontime, and at supper I pretended like I was still full from stuffing myself at the restaurant and pushed most of my portion off on Ma and Maureen.

That worked fine for about two weeks, but today as I was climbing the stairs after school, everything suddenly swirled around and went black. Next thing I knew I was lying in a heap at the bottom of the stairs with a sore head and an aching back and a gang of Rileys bending over me.

"What're you all staring at?" I growled.

"You," said Maggie.

"Why?"

"Because you just passed out and rolled down the stairs, knocking half of us over on the way, and we thought it was a little odd."

I scowled at her and started to sit up, but suddenly everybody disappeared in a painful swirl of colored lights, and I slumped back down again.